


I and Love and You

by TimeTurnedFragile



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Love, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, satsoufflé
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeTurnedFragile/pseuds/TimeTurnedFragile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes after they fuck, Clara will get up, pick up Malcolm's underwear from wherever they've been thrown, and pull them on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I and Love and You

Sometimes after they fuck, Clara will get up, pick up Malcolm's underwear from wherever they've been thrown, and pull them on. 

Right now she's pulled on his boxer briefs and is stretching, back arched with her hands in her hair, still naked from the waist up. Malcolm smiles as he turns his head to see her, and takes a minute to enjoy the view. Clara smiles back, slow and secret, when she catches him watching. 

"Good time?" she asks, scratching at her messy hair and making it messier. The light catches on all of the fly-away strands and makes Clara look like she's glowing.

"Good time," Malcolm answers, and reaches out a hand, beckoning silently. 

Clara hesitates, already turning to head to the bathroom. Malcolm knows what she's wanting to do right now. She wants to brush out her hair, and fix herself up because she knows she looks completely wrecked. Malcolm would agree with that, but he likes it, likes that he was the one to do that to her.

She sighs and pats her hair down a little more, but goes back to the bed and climbs under the covers with Malcolm. Malcolm tangles their legs together, the worn cotton of the underwear pressed against the inside of his thigh, and holds Clara close as she tucks her head under his. 

"See," he says through a yawn, and slips his fingertips under the waistband. It makes Clara squirm closer. "Now I feel all, like, fucking affirmed and shit."

"You can fuck off," Clara mumbles, but Malcolm can feel her smile pressed into his skin and just laughs.

* * *

 

The more Clara does it, the more Malcolm notices. It wouldn't be a big deal-- it's not a big deal, actually, just that Malcolm can't seem to remember her doing it as much as she does now. 

This time she's wearing one of his button ups; it's a blue one, and the underwear are red. She's leaning back against the kitchen counter with her shoulders slumped and her head bent low over a bowl of multi-grain cereal. 

She pauses when she sees him and sets her spoon down to hold out a glass of orange juice for him. Malcolm only just now notices that she's already taken out a glass out for him. 

"Heard you coming," she says when he looks at her over his glass as he drinks, eyebrows raised. Her voice is quiet, still a little sleep raspy, but affectionate. "You walk like a bloody zombie." 

Malcolm shrugs and sets his glass down, then goes to grab a spoon out of the drawer. He takes the first one he touches. It's a serving spoon and too big to actually eat with, but he goes over to Clara and spoons up some of her cereal with it anyway. It doesn't taste as good as it does when he makes it, but that's because he always puts a spoonful of sugar in his and Clara doesn't. She says it defeats the purpose. 

Clara sighs and slaps at Malcolm's shoulder, and Malcolm reaches down without thinking to snap at the underwear she's wearing. 

Clara flinches, says, "Ow," and shoves Malcolm back. He stumbles a few steps, ready to apologize, but grins when he hears her laughing. 

"You," Malcolm says, still grinning, "You are wearing my underwear again," like he's only just noticed. 

"I don't have to be if it's bugging you or something." She sounds entirely unconcerned, even shrugs a little. 

"No, it's." Malcolm shrugs back and glances off to the side before meeting Clara's eyes again. "It's fine, whatever." He steps in close again, and sets his spoon on the table where Clara's setting her bowl. 

Malcolm puts his hands on her hips, then pushes the right one under the shirt, and Clara drapes her arms over Malcolm's shoulders. "'Whatever'? That's such a decisive response."

Malcolm rolls his eyes, stroking his thumb against Clara's waist. "It's fucking fine. I like it," he says, and kisses the tip of her nose. He slides his other hand between them, and Clara laughs. "The shirt, too."

"Seriously?" she says, but shifts a little to spread her legs. "What is that, like, some kind of claiming thing? Me Clara. Me Malcolm's woman." Malcolm worms his fingers in through the opening in the front to touch her, and Clara bites her lip against a smile. 

"Kind of think I'm the one that's owned," Malcolm says. 

He gets her off twice-- once with his fingers, then again when they fuck with Clara's back pressed against the fridge. They end up on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Clara has a pineapple shaped magnet in her hair, and Malcolm picks it out to set it on her cheek.

"So owned," she says, slowly. She's careful not to unsettle the magnet; Malcolm loves her a little more for that alone. 

He doesn't even have to think about it when he answers, "Totally."

* * *

 

Clara has this habit of imprinting herself like a newborn duckling on whomever is most important to her at any given point in time. She does it with Malcolm, sometimes. Not as much as she used to when they first got together, but there are things that she does just for him like she's trying to build some sort of incentive against him leaving her.

He didn't notice at first. They were all things she could've changed for any number of reasons. Maybe it wasn't so much that he didn't notice, but that he didn't really care. He loved her a little, liked her a lot, and there was something nice about someone wanting him so much that she had to mould herself to him perfectly. Malcolm knows that feeling; he used to do the same thing. Clara just happens to be so much better at it than he ever was.

They're lying on the couch, Malcolm on his back with Clara's back pressed against his chest, watching 12 Angry Men when Malcolm asks, "You think I'd do alright in a knife fight?"

"Depends," she says, and seems to consider it for a moment. "Not, like, a real street fight. That wouldn't work." She puts her hand over his where it's wormed its way under the waistband of her sweat pants, patting at it idly. 

"How else would it happen? It's not a fucking seventeenth century duel. You couldn't script it." His hand slips a little lower of its own accord and Clara presses back against him, shifting her hips.

"You'd put somebody's eye out."

"Thanks, mum," Malcolm says, and doesn't think about the significance of that statement while he has his hand down Clara's pants. 

"And it would be your own," Clara adds. Malcolm hates that's she's probably right. 

"You don't love me. I should--" he starts. He wants to say 'I should trade you in for a new model' but it's barely funny in his head, and it wouldn't be as soon as he said it. Despite all assertions to the contrary, Malcolm is a totally conscientious person. Well, okay, he's relatively self-aware. It doesn't mean he always does the right thing, but it helps. 

Clara cuts him off anyway. "I do love you," she says, "and you should feel lucky to have me."

"You're right. I take it back. I'm fucking lucky to have you. You're very accommodating."

"Damn right," she mumbles, and sighs at the end of it when Malcolm touches her. She's wet and he wonders how long she has been when she tilts her hips up into his touch and makes a sound that's like laughing, only not quite. 

She says, "You like it, right." It's not a question. Malcolm stills, his heart beats faster, and doesn't pretend he doesn't know what "it" she means. 

"I like you," Malcolm says, and makes himself relax. "You." 

* * *

 

One day, Clara holds up a pair of her panties-- something red, lacey, and immodest-- and asks, "Have you ever wanted to wear mine?"

"Have I ever wanted to wear your what?" Malcolm's distracted in the midst of catching up on his email, trying to see exactly what the useless cunts have fucked up this time and what he's going to have to do to fix it, so it takes him a moment before he thinks to look to see what Clara means. 

When he does look up, he sees Clara holding up a pair of panties, letting them hang off of her index finger, and blinks. "No?" Then, “No,” because he didn’t mean for it to come out as a question the first time.

"Really?" Clara asks. Malcolm isn't sure if the look on her face is disappointment or skepticism. 

He pretends to give it a little more thought before answering, "Yeah, no."

A second passes, then another, and then Clara slings her underwear at Malcolm's head. They hit him the face and for a moment all he can smell is spring fresh detergent, all he can see is red, and all he can hear is Clara's laughter when he raises a hand to give her a two-finger salute. 

"At least I asked," Clara says. 

Malcolm gets the feeling that she means something by that, but his phone buzzes loudly in his hands, and he's too busy shaking the panties off his head and answering the call at the same time to think about it anymore.

* * *

 

A week passes before realization dawns, and then another before Malcolm decides he wants to do anything about it. He waits until a Saturday when Clara has a hair appointment to make up his mind, then heads out to the store. 

Malcolm buys shoes and suits more than he buys underwear. He doesn't like them, only gets more when he absolutely has to, and even then it's a grab-n-go affair. The fact that he's staring at boxers and briefs and boxer briefs like he's trying to diffuse a bomb is less normal than usual. Boxers or briefs, black or white-- it's almost too much to take.

He's holding a pair of boxers and a three pair pack of briefs, thinking about how Clara will look in them. The boxers are plaid in varying shades of blue, and the briefs are white. Not for the first time, the irony that he would have had an easier time picking out a matching bra and panty set makes itself known. People are starting to look at him. Not because they know or care about who he is, but because he's been standing there for almost half an hour staring at undergarments. He's not a fan of scrutiny as a motivator, but it helps nonetheless.

He leaves the boxers, but takes the briefs and then grabs a pair of socks with devils and pitchforks on them, like some kind of lame cover. You'd think he was doing something deviant with how nervous he's feeling. You'd think he was buying a fucking dildo or nipple clamps or edible underwear, something _kinky_.

When Malcolm gets home, he shoves the underwear in a drawer and tosses the socks on his bed. 

* * *

 

Malcolm almost doesn't say anything. It seems a lot easier that way, but then, somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the echo of Clara saying, "At least I asked," and knows that he can't really avoid it.

She steps into the bedroom with her hair dark and shower-wet, clinging to her shoulders. Malcolm sits on the bed, stops fidgeting, and says, "I'm asking."

This isn't his smoothest moment. Clara doesn't seem to mind. She never does, truly, and he'll always be fiercely grateful that he has this one place he doesn't have to be _on_ all the time. She just unwraps her towel from around herself to scrub at her hair with, and asks, "What are you asking, Malcolm?"

Malcolm doesn't answer for a long moment, not until Clara's done drying her hair and drapes her towel over her shoulders.

"I'm asking," he starts, but frowns. Then, "I'm asking," and pulls out the pair of briefs from where he shoved them under his thigh, to toss them at her to catch. 

Clara does catch them, and then holds them up in front of her face, peering at Malcolm over them. It's not sexy. It's embarrassing and funny, and then startlingly intimate when Clara nods and slips the briefs on. Malcolm doesn't know what to think of it, so he doesn't think anything.

"C'mere, yeah?" he says, holding his arms out for her. She drops the towel and goes to him, standing between his legs, and shoves him back. It's quick enough to take Malcolm by surprise and hard enough to knock him off balance. Malcolm wraps his arms around her at the last moment and pulls Clara down with him. 

They go down laughing, and they're still laughing when Clara climbs up to straddle Malcolm's hips and kisses him. 

He reaches up to cup her breasts when she sits up, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, and smiles up at Clara as she smiles down at him.

"What am I supposed to say, huh? I could talk dirty," Clara says. She leans down to whisper in Malcolm's ear, "I could tell you to suck my dick."

"You-- I," Malcolm stutters, his breath catching when Clara drags the heel of her palm over the length of Malcolm's dick. "That's. Maybe?" he hears himself say, and laughs because she could and maybe he would. 

"Yeah?" Clara asks. She licks her palm wet when she gets his jeans undone and shoves her hand inside, curling her fingers tight around him. 

Malcolm drags one hand down her stomach, pausing just as his fingers hit the waistband of the briefs before slipping his hand inside to touch her. He sighs, focuses on the feel of wet heat against his fingers and soft cotton against the back of his hand, and says, "Yeah."

* * *

 

In the morning, Malcolm manages to get up before Clara, but he's fucking bad at being a morning person, so there's no glass of juice or even an extra bowl of cereal for her when she comes downstairs. He does pull out an extra spoon so they can share his cereal, though. 

"Good morning, baby," she mumbles against his shoulder as she hugs him, and Malcolm hates the morning a little less. 

He grunts something that might be an an affirmative, and hands Clara the spoon. She scoops up a bit of cereal, humming a little when she puts the spoon in her mouth, then makes a face. He may have gone a little heavy on the sugar this morning.

"You're such a freak," she says, but takes another spoonful, and Malcolm laughs. He laughs so hard that milk dribbles out the corner of his mouth. 

"Fuck," Malcolm says, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand as he catches his breath. "Fuck, I love you."

Clara's eyes are soft, a fond smile on her face as she says, "Yeah, I know. I love you too."


End file.
